The Faces Unknown Collection
by LadyHeatherlly
Summary: One chapter for every episode of Merlin, captured from the perspective of a variety of unknown characters who make their home within the Kingdom of Camelot. No names, no faces, only the stories that have not yet been told.
1. The Dragon's Call

**Episode:** The Dragon's Call  
**Category:** Gen  
**Rating/Warnings:** K+  
**Word Count:** 534

* * *

"How about three? Right, three of those nice juicy apples."

The young woman quietly placed the fruit in a sack and held it out to the man, avoiding his eyes in the hope that he wouldn't turn out to be one of those customers who liked to linger and chat after making their purchase. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy a bit of socializing - she would've welcomed the company on any other day, a pleasant respite to break up the monotonous hours spent selling produce while dreaming of a more exciting life.

But today was different. Today was an execution day.

"Quite a show earlier, wasn't it?" the man remarked cheerfully.

_Common butchery is more like it,_ she thought bitterly, even as she nodded with a wan smile.

Oblivious to her lack of enthusiasm, he cast a long look at the bloodstained platform in the distance. "Least this one went to his death with dignity, no crying or blubbering like some of the others. Didn't even soil his britches!"

_Go away,_ her mind pleaded in silent distress. _Please, just go away._

Instead, the man remained right where he was, reliving every gory detail of the beheading of Tom Collins as if it had been some sumptuous feast he'd been privileged enough to enjoy. And even though she tried to play along as she always did, fighting her grief and revulsion so she might appear as unaffected as any other citizen of Camelot, she couldn't help but flinch as she remembered another man who'd met the same miserable fate only two weeks before. He hadn't cried out either - no, he'd been brave and strong, refusing to cower in the face of tyranny even as they'd shoved his head on the block and brought the ax down amidst the heartless jeering of the gathered crowd. He'd been the one she hadn't been able to avert her eyes from, the terrible severing of bone and breath and blood that had brought a brutal end to a lifetime spent turning away or hiding indoors, anything to avoid the horrifying realities that were happening around her.

But now she knew the truth. It was too late... refusing to watch would not shelter her anymore.

Jostled by her sudden movement, a single apple fell from its overflowing basket and hit the ground with a sickening thud; rolling, rolling, rolling through the dirt just like...

The woman fell to her knees, no longer caring whether the world bore witness to her grief or what the consequences of her actions might be. If it was treason to feel, to love, to grieve for each and every life that was cruelly snatched away in this deplorable war on magic, then so be it.

"You all right?"

The man visibly cringed as she raised her head to look up at him with a world of anguish in her eyes - felt on behalf of those she didn't know and didn't _need_ to know in order to experience their suffering as deeply as her own.

"Get away from my cart," she snarled. "And take your apples with you."


	2. Valiant

**Episode:** Valiant  
**Category:** Het  
**Rating/Warnings:** K+  
**Word Count:** 590

* * *

Valiant. It was a word meant to define honor, courage, determination.

Indeed, in the beginning, the starry eyed young woman had wanted to believe that the man who bore the name possessed all these qualities... the most noble of hearts to match the handsomest face she'd ever seen.

Had she been older, perhaps wiser, maybe she would've given more thought to that old adage "too good to be true." But when he'd stood there upon her father's threshold, his lips quirked in just the hint of a smile as he brushed them ever so gently across the soft skin on the back of her hand, all she'd known was that he was a godsend, a savior, freedom from the miserable union she'd been certain would be arranged for her with some stinking old codger with only a title or massive amounts of wealth to recommend him.

Perhaps for the first time ever, she'd thought of kisses, of flowers and sweetly whispered promises, and for even the slightest possibility that it might be hers, she'd given the handsome young Valiant her heart. She'd never hesitated, not even when in an unaccustomed act of generosity, her father had offered to delay the wedding in order to allow the couple to get to know one another. No, she'd stood before the priest the very next week, trussed up in her mother's lace and a tremulous smile, utterly convinced that the man beside her would cherish her for the rest of their lives.

It was only after the wedding that the truth was revealed, slowly, painfully, in sickening little lurches that had her constantly on edge just waiting for the ax to fall all over again. The first time those lips, those beautiful lips, had curled into a mocking sneer... the first night that velvety voice that had only ever whispered words of love had risen in anger, just before the hand that had once clasped hers so sweetly had slammed into her jaw.

Everything after that had been a blur of disappointment: her dowry squandered upon gambling debts, the other women Valiant never troubled to hide from her notice. And as the months passed, she drew in on herself, becoming something hard, cold, and unyielding, determined he would not break her before she saw him broken. She was a block of ice as she stood in the stands and watched the tournament that was taking place in the fair city of Camelot... the one he swore he would win, the prize he was willing to lie, steal, cheat and kill to get his hands upon.

She melted when he fell beneath the prince's sword, as if she were a frozen lake that simply couldn't withstand the relentless benediction of the early spring sunshine. Melted, and clasped the slight bulge of her abdomen, beyond any ability to grieve for the one-time embodiment of all her hopes and dreams, nor the monster he'd become. The baby... oh, how she'd feared for the fate of her unborn child, formed from the clandestine love between herself and another man she would've never imagined as her true savior... plain rather than handsome, modest rather than extravagant, common rather than titled. He was the one who'd taught her what it truly meant to be "valiant." It wasn't to be found in a pleasing face or a misplaced name. It came from the heart, and nowhere else.

It came from a heart that she was finally free to claim for her own.


	3. The Mark of Nimueh

**Episode:** The Mark of Nimueh  
**Category:** Gen  
**Rating/Warnings:** K  
**Word Count:** 702

* * *

It should have been more difficult, sneaking into the bowels of the fortress in the dead of night. At least one of the guards should've cried out, "Halt! What business do you have down here?"

But they said not a word as he passed their way, the sleepy sentinels who counted him as one of their own. They only nodded and smiled, seeming not to notice the sweat beading his brow or the lower lip he nibbled to the point where he tasted the salty warmth of his own blood.

It should've been a far greater challenge to bypass them all, to reach that forbidding iron door behind which lay the legacy of a thousand shattered lives. Spellbooks and amulets, crystals and enchanted ornaments... they should've been dragging him away to a prison cell the minute he thrust the key into the tiny crevice, decrying him as a traitor before he was even given the opportunity to push the door open and slip inside.

But all was silent as he did just that, his eyes widening in awe as they passed over the heaping piles of glittering contraband that filled the room. Only a moment... a heartbeat and a breath to marvel over the wonders laid out before him, and then the briefest pause as the memory of an innocent young serving girl prompted an onslaught of questions that he'd never allowed himself to contemplate before that moment.

Could magic, those elusive powers which were capable of bringing all the splendor before him into existence, truly be evil? Were all sorcerers corrupted... or had a few who'd misused their gifts caused the rest to be condemned to a fate they didn't deserve? That girl in the yellow dress, the soul of kindness for all the years he'd known her... could she really be guilty of the terrible crime of which she'd been accused?

And then he remembered himself, passing over a mound of glittering jewels in shades and hues he'd never seen before in order to reach the one thing, the _only_ thing, that could've inspired the most loyal of Camelot's guards to rebel against a lifetime of faithful, unquestioning service to his king.

The poultice hummed in his pocket like some sentient being, so vibrant and alive within his tightly clutched fist that he had to wonder that the others did not sense it as he passed their way again. And yet there were only casual calls of, "See you on the morrow!" and "Give your girls my best!" echoing in his head as he stumbled out into the courtyard and made his way home.

There was terror in his wife's eyes as he withdrew the shimmering object, a gasp and a protest that were both silenced by a hasty, distracted kiss. She spoke not a word after that, only clung to his arm as he stepped over to the bed, his eyes closing in relief upon the sight of the shallow rise and fall of a pair of tiny chests.

It wasn't too late. Not yet.

He slipped it beneath their pillow then, the clumsy little talisman that stood as his only weapon against the certain death of his beloved daughters. And as he stared down into the identical pair of drawn, gray faces, envisioning them rosy-cheeked and full of laughter once more, he couldn't bring himself to fear the consequences of his actions. Let them string him up on the morrow, brand him a traitor and leave him to die in infamy. For if magic was capable of saving two such innocent lives, he would gladly give his own to defend it.

And so as the sun rose over the horizon, its gentle hues of pink and gold infusing a pair of pallid complexions with the glow of good health, a heart's alliance shifted forever. What the anxious young father had done the previous night would never be discovered, nor would the increasing frequency of escapes by those who'd been accused of sorcery ever be traced back to him.

But forever thereafter, deep within the heart of Camelot's seemingly impenetrable fortress, magic had earned itself a staunch ally.


	4. The Poisoned Chalice

**Episode:** The Poisoned Chalice  
**Category:** Het  
**Rating/Warnings:** T  
**Word Count:** 394  
**Author's Note:** In honor of Nimueh's lovers.

* * *

Her eyes would remind him of cornflowers, bluebells, or perhaps a summer sky, so brilliantly blue and mesmerizing that he'd find himself incapable of forming a coherent sentence whenever he was in her presence. She would never seem to mind, however – those lush lips would curve into a gentle smile before parting to bestow some compliment he'd be certain he'd done nothing to deserve.

She'd take him to her bed then and he'd go there eagerly, this servant or squire or merchant's son, forever young and handsome as she preferred. And for a short time she'd love him, or at least as far as she was capable of loving anyone in the aftermath of a lifetime filled with grief. She'd be everything he'd ever dreamed of and then some, to soothe her own guilt over how it must end, and in part because she was lonely too, desperate for even the barest facsimile of a world where she wasn't doomed to wander alone for the rest of her days.

For that brief interlude, they might even be happy… until the day arrived when he inadvertently got a little too close, perhaps learned some secret that was not his right to know. That would be the day she had no choice but to dispose of him, else risk the exposure of a revenge that was 20 years in the making. For no matter how sweet he might be, how tender and charming and devoted to her in every possible way, her determination to see Uther Pendragon fall would always be more important than the needs of her own heart.

She'd kill him then, with a grim faced expression that betrayed none of her true feelings. But he'd never know the truth, nor recognize her as his murderer even as he drew his final breath.

He'd never know because even in this terrible act, the sorceress was not entirely devoid of mercy. Heavy, languid, she'd coax him into his final rest with a smile on his lips and a kiss upon his brow... deeper, deeper into the yawning darkness, with no trace of fear or pain to sully his final glimpse of her beautiful blue eyes.

And if he were aware of his own demise at all, it might occur to him that there were certainly worse ways to die.


	5. Lancelot

**Episode:** Lancelot  
**Category:** Gen  
**Rating/Warnings:** K  
**Word Count:** 810

* * *

"Thank you," the boy said quietly. "For everything."

There were so many words that could've been spoken in that moment, a whirlwind of feelings and memories struggling to define just how the old cobbler felt about the orphaned youth who'd shared his home for the better part of a decade. He could've told Lancelot how proud he was of the way he'd turned out, brave, honorable and kind beyond all expectation. Perhaps he could've expressed his gratitude in return for the years of comfort given to a lonely old soul who knew exactly how it felt to be alone in the world.

If he were another man, far more bold and less cognizant of his own shortcomings, he might have even admitted that he really did love the boy, which would've been followed by a warm embrace. Yes, that certainly would've been better than the awkward pat on the back he managed in the end.

"Just don't get yourself killed," he said, already faulty words that came out far more gruffly than he'd intended.

Nonetheless, the boy gave him a genuine smile in response, and he could only hope it meant that all the things left unspoken were somehow understood. He'd done his best over the years, making sure young Lancelot was well provided for in all the ways he could manage – good food and reliable shelter, the warmest clothing he could afford even if it meant going without himself. But as for the rest… what had he ever known about raising a child, especially one who'd lost so much at such a tender age?

Perhaps it might have been different if Lancelot had been more outspoken, seeking out the closeness and affection the old cobbler had never quite known how to offer him. Certainly if he'd been more clear about his needs, whatever he'd required would've been given without reservation. But making demands had never been in the boy's nature, and so the years had slipped by with what could only be described as a companionable distance between them.

Had he done enough? He imagined that question would plague him for the rest of his days as he watched Lancelot set off on the path that would carry him to the distant city of Camelot. How he wished he'd been able to offer more for the journey than just a handful of silver, a bit of food, and a small satchel of homespun clothing. How could that possibly be sufficient for someone who intended to make his home among those who were accustomed to wealth and privilege beyond all imagining? Would he be cast out as soon as he arrived, doomed to struggle alone as he sought other means for survival?

"Should've done more," the old man fretted to himself as the boy's silhouette grew smaller and smaller against the rising sun. "Should've made him take up a trade skill or apprenticed him out to become a farmer. Would've made a good farmer… never seen anyone willing to work harder. Always did whatever was asked of him without a word of complaint."

But deep down, he knew why he'd never urged Lancelot to do anything aside from pursuing the knighthood he'd wanted so badly, even if setting him on his way with only a slightly rusty sword in his hand was terrifying. It was the quiet determination that was forever present in those soft brown eyes, the grace with which he wielded his weapon when he thought no one else was watching. Most of all, it was in the proud tilt of his chin, an unspoken sense of purpose that could only exist in a man who knew exactly who he was and what he was meant to do with his life.

Simply put, Lancelot had been born to fulfill a greater destiny than life as a field worker or blacksmith. There was no getting around that, no matter how tempting it might've been to encourage him on a path that would've kept him close at hand for the rest of his days. Yes… sending him off into the unknown was unquestionably the most difficult thing the old man had ever had to do, but in the end, it was the right one.

And so he cast the last of his reservations away, focusing instead on the deep melancholy that came with being parted from the only person who'd ever truly mattered to him. Lancelot would do just fine on his own; he was too strong, too brave, too set upon his course to believe otherwise.

Learning to get by without him, however, would be another matter entirely.

"Farewell…" came a final whisper, as the tiny speck that was Lancelot finally disappeared against the backdrop of a bright summer sky. "Son."


End file.
